


Cinchy the Clown

by TheGoldenShadow



Category: My Little Pony: Equestria Girls
Genre: Bitter, Gen, Humiliating Job, Working as a Clown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27514243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoldenShadow/pseuds/TheGoldenShadow
Summary: After being relieved of her duties at Crystal Prep Academy, Abacus Cinch needed to find a new form of employment. Sadly for her, she found one.
Kudos: 3





	Cinchy the Clown

My car comes to a steady halt. With a quick turn of my key the engine winds itself down, the relative air of silence it brings depressingly heavy. The outside world is nothing more than a muffled drone of miscellaneous sounds and I am left with only the option to either restart the car and drive for home or leave its confines and proceed with my awaiting appointment.

For one reason or another, I wouldn’t deem either choice an especially appealing one.

Now that I actually listen, there are traces of identifiable sounds in the chaotic din outside. Modern pop music, fact paced and obnoxiously high-pitched. I’m sure I’ve heard it before, on the television whenever I’ve pressed the incorrect sequence of buttons on the remote. Between the beats, the eager squeals of young children just about breach the safety glass of my car. It sends an uncomfortable shiver through the roots of my teeth.

It leaves me with little reasonable doubt that I have indeed reached my scheduled destination.

The Sweet Shoppe.

Exactly fifteen minutes early, as expected of any official business engagement. Reputation rules all, even within this sordid business I’m forced to be a part of. If I am obligated by contract to venture and interact with disgusting little children, then I shall do so on time. No matter how much I would rather not,

I remove myself from of the car, retrieving my leather work case from the back. It is non-descript and made from faux leather. To the average onlooker, it is entirely mundane. Nothing more than a medium sized suitcase.

Ideal, when you do not wish the riffraff to know your state of employment.

With ten minutes until the beginning of my ‘shift’, I make my way inside. My blouse is crisped. My skirt and coat are free from fluff and dust. For all intents and purposes, I am making my way to a business meeting and I will ensure that people do not think otherwise.

But the needs must, and upon entering the Sweet Shoppe I am greeted by the sickly sweetness of pink cakes and pastries. Ideally, the backdoor would be a more welcome entrance, but children do not often notice a new adult at a party until they prove to be worth their time. Leaving through the back is compulsory, however.

That horrid music I had heard from within the safety of my car is out here in full force, the song different but ultimately the same as each that came before and will come after.

Savoury snack foods are gathered on one lone table as the rest are filled with assorted desserts. Different children gather around either in droves and paper plates litter the room, coated in cream, crumbs and abandoned edibles.

Just as many paper cups sit on the tables, likely filled with some overly fizzy concoction. Something orange or pink is vaguely visible inside the few I’m near.

On the subject of pink and overly fizzy, my client finally takes notice of my arrival. Unfortunately.

“Oh. My. _Gobstopper!_ ”

The name ‘Pinkamena Diane Pie’ had rung a certain bell, when the schedule was put forward to me. The name was one I had read somewhere, I mused. Perhaps on my colleague’s documentation. That likely is still the case.

But now in the flesh, I realise. She was a competitor at the Friendship Games. In the cooking segment, quite possibly.

A friend of those accursed little magical brats.

“It _is_ you!” she squealed, no better than the children running around her ankles covered in cake and their own spittle. “I mean, I saw your name on the confirmation email so I knew it was _probably_ going to be you, but at the same time I thought it couldn’t _possibly_ be you.”

If only the latter were the case. I don’t fully remember her, but the way her voice prattles on feels achingly familiar. “Pinkamena.”

“ _Abacus_ ,” she parrots back, in what I can only assume is an attempt to mirror my own voice. Regardless, she breaks into fits afterwards. “C’mon, there’s no need to be all fancy. Call me Pinkie! Everyone calls me Pinkie.”

“Pinkamena will do fine.”

If my objections bother her in any way, she fails to show it. “It’s really been a while, huh? I haven’t seen you since the big fight between Sunset and Twilight. You remember that? The big magic fight? The one when Twilight tore holes in the fabric of reality?”

I hate all of them. So, very much.

My lack of a response does not phase her. “That’s fine; I forget things a lot, too. And it was a little while ago, so I _suppose_ I can forgive you. How’ve you been?” she asks, overly chipper and the previous topic all but abandoned. She’s off again before I get the chance to even think about answering. “I heard you left Crystal Prep.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” I reply, slowly. “Why _else_ would I be here?”

My sharp tone is once again lost on her, if she even has the cognisant ability to read emotional cues at all. “Oh, be nice. We both know you’re here because you like to help the kids. Why else would you be a principal?”

Why, indeed.

“Or a clown!” Her smile infectious, though not in a pleasant fashion. “It’s so cool that you’re a clown. There’s so much clowny knowledge you could bestow upon me! Do you do balloons? Do you have pies? I like throwing the pies around. Why do–”

“Leave her alone, Pinkie,” another voice chimes in. Also female, but significantly older.

My attention is briefly pulled to a larger woman with pink hair. My initial instinct is to assume she is Pinkamena’s mother, but my assumption is immediately put into question.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she says, reaching out a hand. “I’m Cup Cake.”

Mother to the children. Different last name to Pinkamena. Familial issues may well be in play, but if they were related, I can only assume the mother would be in charge.

I take her hand firmly in mine. “Abacus Cinch. Charmed,” I say, a socially polite presented on my lips.

Clearly, I am not the personality Cup Cake expected. In my blouse and half-moon spectacles, that is exactly the image I wish to portray, current employment be damned.

“My husband and I haven’t had the most time on our hands recently, so Pinkie’s been planning this party for Pound and Pumpkin,” she says with a thankful, if not unsure smile. “And it’s also nice to be able to spend the day with them without everything being on our shoulders.”

“I can imagine.”

There’s an empty silence before I speak up again. We’re wasting time. “I require a room to change. Otherwise the short notice might not do you much good at all.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Cake replies. She turns to Pinkamena. “Show Abacus to the staff room, please.” Then to me. “You can change in there. The door is coded, so anything you leave in there will be safe.”

“It is appreciated.”

More so than she could ever know. Worse still than having this occupation in the first place would be to leave this building wearing the gaudy uniform. Outside of scheduled performances, I at least have that strip of dignity to hold onto. Some scraps of reputation among the public. Assuming they are unaware I was recently… _relieved_ of my duties at Crystal Prep Academy.

There is little reason to assume that many members of the public would think wrongly of me. The details of my dismissal are hardly public knowledge and would remain so even without all this talk of demon fairies and magic. Who wouldn’t have run at the sights that dominated the end of the Friendship Games?

Portals into other worlds.

My most prized student mutating into a malignant magical monster.

Celestia and her sister had seemed so calm on the matter, in the aftermath. So ready to simply count it as merely unusual, if not completely mundane. So ready to hold it over me as some ridiculous farce that no one in their right mind would believe.

I doubt I am right of mind, even now that the event has long since ended.

And despite turning a blind eye to _magic_ and the danger it poses to her students, she had the audacity to blackmail me for mortal misdeeds during the event. Minor cheating and saving myself from a very real danger. But no. Magic is excusable.

Underhanded tactics deserve punishment, but letting magic roam the halls of her Podunk little school?

That is fine, apparently. So fine, that Pinkamena and her sordid little crew apparently have little care about dropping it into casual conversation. Though, I do wonder if she would be so open if Cup Cake had been around us for the entirety of the conversation.

Regardless, Cup Cake bids me a happy farewell-for-now as Pinkamena directs me towards the back of the shop, towards a marked door for staff use only. I can only assume security measures are more stringent beyond this door; she merely opens it.

As I make my final step inside, I notice another of Celestia’s little crew. The girl with duck-egg blue skin and rainbow hair. Our eyes meet for the slightest moment before the door closes behind me.

It is all the time I need to clearly make out a dirty smile spreading across her entire face. It would not surprise me in the slightest if her being here at all was solely to witness me at my lowest.

In days gone by, I would have slapped that look from her face. If not by force, then by command and influence. The most I can do now is push through the mockery until I regain some semblance of social standing. As low as I am on the ladder right now, each day is a step up.

And I _will_ make my way back to the top.

For now, I’m led like a child through a basic hallway, typical of a standard middle-class home. Pinkamena stops at a simple door, varied from the others only in that it has a mechanical look attached to one side. She slowly presses in several buttons, turning a knob when she is finished.

It clicks, and she holds the door open for me. I make my way inside, sparing a required nod in thanks for the gesture.

“You can get ready in here.” She waves into the bare room, proud of its insignificance. “Only the Cakes and three more of us have the code, so all your stuff will be locked up nice and tight.”

Good to see they have some basic idea of security in this place.

When I place my case on a nearby table without so much as a word to her, she pipes back up. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“A better occupation, perhaps.”

She merely breaks out into laughter. “Ooh, you’re totally going to be a good clown. I can just feel it!”

Then she leaves, and I’m left to face the mirror.

As requested by my parent company, there is indeed a mirror present for me to get ready with. The suggested time to change into the appropriate amount of makeup and uniform is roughly twenty minutes. Through practise, I have negated that time to a mere ten, without any obvious deficiency in quality.

Looking into my face, in this mirror, I see some semblance of the woman who pulled Crystal Prep into the limelight. Principal Abacus Cinch.

That illusion is broken with the first pad of stark-white makeup on my periwinkle skin.

Perhaps the male clowns have issues with applying makeup quickly, but I have little issue. It takes little time at all to apply the base; it is quicker to apply en masse and clean at the end than it is to meticulously go through each crease and crevice. Not when the linework takes up a larger portion of ones’ time.

The lines are intricate. Fine art curving around my angled cheekbones. They change the shape of my face. My emotions. Added eyebrow make those lines seem happy, the thick smile approachable. If you would look at me in the street – not that I would ever even begin to consider such a travesty – you would have no knowledge it was me beneath the façade.

And a façade is accurate.

With the last of the paint applied, I am the very image of laughter and levity. The black smile curled up my cheeks only allows me that little more freedom. If the children think I am smiling at them, there is little need to put in the extra effort to do so myself.

Low as it is, my pride remains. And I will keep whatever scraps of it I can.

A tinted purple wig to match my own hair is the final touch before I’m forced to change. A slight pocket at the back of the hairpiece with hidden items irritates the top of my neck, but it is a small issue at best.

The buttons at the back of the gaudy display of a top are simple enough, and the same could hesitantly be said of the bottoms, even if they are a tad loose for my liking. Each likewise has their own hidden compartments, each filled with the various items I might require for the act. Not all will be used, but variety allows me enough flexibility to ensure a swift shift and easy exit.

Not a single piece of the so-called uniform is strictly to my liking, but clothes in my size are apparently a luxury not befitting my station. The oversized shoes, most especially. Entirely for show and without any real functionality other than expanding on an already tired stereotype.

But with that, the new illusion is complete; Abacus Cinch is gone.

In her place is… Cinchy the Clown.

One last look at the stomach-curdling smile that stares back from beyond the mirror, and I hold my head tall. I make for the door.

_Squeak_

… The shoes also squeak when you walk.

_Squeak_

_Squeak_

Unfortunately.

_Squeak_

Opening the door, I’m once again greeted by the sight of one Pinkamena Diane Pie, stood several feet down the hall, hands behind her back and eyes aimlessly wandering across the surface of the ceiling. If my arrival did not clue her in to my readiness to proceed, the infernal sounds in my shoes do.

I expect laughter. I expect ridicule.

Perhaps I thought too highly of Pinkamena to assume she would understand the demeaning nature of my role. Rather, she seem intrigued by the idea.

“You look amazing!” She looks at me as I imagine a toddler might gaze upon a particular large and unhealthy dessert. “And you barely look scary at all!”

I feel an involuntary twitch at the corner of my eye. “I assume I must take that as a compliment.”

“Duh. Clowns are awesome!”

Of course.

Time to get this farce over with.

“You have me for _one_ hour. After the hour, I will be taking my leave. I will not stay to coddle any clingy children, nor will there be any extras. I do not stay in character out of ours and will not adhere to any requests once the hour is up.”

As peppy as she remains, Pinkamena’s eyes do indeed go slightly wide. In the audacity that one could put so many stipulations on being a clown, if nothing else. “…Uh, okay. Got it, Cinchy!”

Cinchy.

That’s all I am now, isn’t it? _Cinchy._

“Let’s get this over with.”

Upbeat as she appears, my distinct lack of enthusiasm for the role does seem to take something small out of her. At best, I would call it mild confusion. Nothing close to resentment or pity. Or pleasure at my humiliation.

On some level, I suppose I can appreciate that.

“So, it’s Pumpkin and Pound Cakes’ birthday – they’re the boy and the girl with the birthday badges,” she whispers conspiratorially. “They have this weird fear of giraffes, so try not to do a giraffe balloon animal if you do the balloons animals. If you _have_ to do a giraffe, make the neck extra long and tell them it’s a dinosaur. They’re not technically into dinosaurs yet but I have very high hopes for next year. They already like clowns, so they clearly have good taste.”

“I read the email.” I know who the children are. I know what to avoid.

“Yeah, but I thought the dinosaur idea was too good not to run by you. Parties are my basically my thing.” Charming. “I’m a party problem solver. And…”

She pauses for air, before her voice dips into the closest thing to socially acceptable as I can ever imagine her being with someone. “I just want to make sure that their big day is super special, y’know?”

It likely will be. Children have a distinct liking for adults humiliating themselves. It is a habit that only a select few manage to outgrow. I doubt Pinkamena has met a singe one, outside of the infamous Twilight Sparkle.

“You will get the entertainment you paid for,” is all I reply with. Even within this industry, there is a reputation to be upheld. And if I do not, I risk falling even further still than I already have. “Any more _advice_ , pray tell?”

“Don’t drink the orange soda. It’s kinda nasty.”

I shan’t be touching any of it. Not when little children have been left to wander around the place with their sticky little finger.

Pinkamena ushers me back into the main room. I have but a single second to breathe before she screams loudly into the throngs of wandering children.

“it’s clown time!”

The chorus of cheers is almost deafening. Some people may have taken pride in that, to hear a dozen or so young children screaming at them in what is surely pure, unfiltered joy. The sort of joy that only a child can possess, untouched by the harsh realities of the world.

It only goes manages remind me how utterly far I’ve fallen from grace.

“Hey kids!” Even the voice I have to push out the back of my throat makes me want to vomit at the best of times. “Who’s ready for fun, fun, _fun!_ ”

Even more cheers, and right away they’re upon me. Even as I move to the centre of the room, to a cushioned area cleared for my act, the comparison to a wave of snot and sticky fingers is too apt to avoid. Mrs. Cake stands with a lanky man – the husband, I assume – their eyes locked on the children with beaming smiles.

And at the edge of it all, the rainbow-haired girl is practically having a seizure as she guffaws at my misfortune. I almost prefer Pinkamena.

Almost.

“I’ve been told it’s someone’s birthday,” I whisper to the nearest children, unfortunately taking a page from Miss Pie’s book. “Now… was it one birthday or two?”

Two especially giddy children raise their hands in the air. I recognise them from the very large and very obnoxious badges affixed to their shirt.

“It’s me! It’s my birthday!” a boy says. Pound.

And then the girl. Pumpkin. “And my birthday! We were born on the same day!”

“Well, fancy that! That’s very lucky. Usually only twins are born on the same day.”

They break into big smiles. The sort smiles that very much imply that they think they know better than you. “We _are_ twins!” they both exclaim.

“She’s so silly,” Pound whispers to his sister, giggling all the while.

“I like her hair,” she replies.

I stand up straight, pouting at them with a glower I only wish I could direct towards the rainbow girl and her maniacal cackling. “I _do not_ like my hair.”

Pumpkin seems mortified by the mere thought. “What?! Why don’t you like your hair?”

“Why, I keep finding things in it.” I reach up, sliding my fingers into the hidden compartment as the base of the skull. “Like candy!”

It only contains a fistful or so, but the added weight is still an irritation that needs to be dealt with. Such a small thing to notice, but all the more annoying when you have a cheap, poorly sewn wig on top of a full head of hair.

Regardless, dropping a handful of parent-approved SUPER FRUITY FRUIT CHEW-CHEWS™ in their hands is more than enough to bring any and all smiles back their face. Reaching in for the rest and tossing them in the air satiates the rest of gaggle with little extra effort.

And the added weight at my head is gone with it. Perfect.

“I do that with my hair, too!” Pinkamena pipes up, reaching in and pulling just as much out of her own tangled locks, if not more than myself and throwing it to the rest of the children, presumably those unfortunate to not grab any of mine. Or those too greedy for their own good. “Candy!”

I wouldn’t dare touch the sweets with even an industrial set of thick rubber gloves. Lord knows how long they’ve spent gestating in the sweaty tangle of Pinkamena’s hair.

And I don’t need complaints from the brats’ parents because this stupid girl managed to do more than me, when I’m paid to be here. _Paid_ being the operative word.

A scant few of the children wander back to the tables, grabbing cake or drinking from seemingly random cups. Another sits happily in one corner drawing pictures.

A few less to deal with.

“And don’t even get me _started_ on my sleeves.”

I reach up my right sleeve and pull at the ribbon hidden inside. It comes free, a multitude of multicoloured flags sewn along the trim. “ _Ugh!_ Getting changed is a nightmare!”

Isn’t it just?

When a suitable length is pulled free, I do the same with the other sleeve. I feign disgust once more, pulling at both in quick succession as neither seems to end.

An easy end to the trick is presented, however. “Wait. There’s two of you. Could you help me?”

The sleeves of this outfit are deceptively well made, despite the expense clearly spared on the quick job made of the wig and its veritable secret compartment. Not all are required to be used with each performance, but the sleeves hide various pockets, as do much of the lining. Children have an unhealthy relationship with cartoons and videogames, these days. Both mediums present characters with a seemingly endless supply of junk on their persons at all times, despite the clear constraints their clothes possess.

A cheap trick with baggy clothes works just as well on the impressionable.

Pound and Pumpkin are clearly among them. They gasp in awe at the mere idea that a clown needs their help. I force a cracked smile, chiefly assisted by the markings slapped onto my face. Even I must admit that the act seems natural if given a passing glance.

“We can pull them out of your sleeves?” Pound asks, ever so hopeful.

“You better. I won’t be a very good clown if my hands getting tangled in all these flags!”

If they fail, the act continues with me getting tangled regardless. There’s no easy escape from this job. No excuse. No accident too unimportant.

You’re expected to adapt to any given situation. If nothing else, I am talented at that.

Pumpkin begins to pull in earnest, grabbing each inch and pulling it farther as more is revealed. Pound decides his best bet is to grab the fabric and run away with it.

Either way, the effect the same. Rather coincidentally, both pulls the last inch free at the same time.

“I won!” Pumpkin screams, regardless.

“Nu-huh!”

“I saw mine come out first, so I won.”

Using his lack of presence to change the visible outcome. Underhanded, but impressive. Unfortunately, I’m contractually obligated to be impartial.

“No one wins or loses with me!”

I once again catch sight of the rainbow girl. She gives me a knowing look, an equally knowing grin on her face as she urges me to continue.

I don’t break character. That risks pay. But I do find myself gritting my teeth together as I add, “As long as we all have fun. Fun, _fun!_ ”

Fun.

Fun.

_Fun!_

“Speaking of fun…” I reach into the front of my costume and pull on a velvet bag, a variety of coloured rubber balloons inside. “Does anyone here like balloons?”

I always hope to any god that’s willing to listen that only a few actually say yes to the query. Folding a balloon animal – a balloon _anything_ – takes time. Time means concentration, and concentration means less children receive the attention they think they deserve.

All well and good for those with a birthday. A potential meltdown with the rest of them.

Sadly, at least seven or eight shoot their hands straight up.

“Oh dear, so many!” So… so many. “Well, well, welly well! I shall have to be very quick! What would the birthday twins like?”

Pumpkin was in there quick. “I want a sword!” Her fist clench together as a devious smile takes over her otherwise pretty features. “A _pink_ sword.”

Swords were by far the simplest. Perfect.

One of the few models I have managed to perfect in under a minute, I manage it with little fanfare. Adding the fanfare is also contractually required, so blowing it up required wide eyes and puffed out cheeks.

And, of course, swishing the sword like a drunk pirate to finish the whole charade off. “One pink sword for the birthday girl!”

“Yeeeees, pink sword!”

Several more children have wandered away for their cake. Some children have returned. I can’t remember who else wanted balloons, nor do I particularly care, but it could prove an issue in the minutes to come.

Pinkamena once again appears to metaphorically defecate on my parade. “You want me to make some other balloons? I can make ponies and alligators.”

Various children go wide eyes at the prospect of the stated animals, and despite my reservations, I decide that working with said offer will likely net me more points with the parents. More happy children mean happier customers. Happier customers meant better tips.

And pushing away a family friend offering to help keep the children busy during a very quiet period would likely not go amiss to achieving those goals.

“I certainly can’t say no to a veritable balloon connoisseur,” I manage. Pinkamena is _far_ too pleased to be referred to as such for a high school student. “Here you go!” I grab several balloons with my little pouch and hand them over. I’m surprised she doesn’t have her own stashed in her hair.

For the briefest moment, my act falters. “Go nuts,” I added, rather bluntly.

Pinkamena then turns back to the children. “Ponies and alligators!”

Several of the children cheer, moving over to her. I’m left with three, Pound Cake included. Much more manageable.

Pound requests a trumpet. Not… standard. The basic shapes are doable, however. Unless you get a particularly precocious child that requests a superhero or a particularly complex character, there is little you can’t do with basic shapes and minor alterations.

I present him with something that only just resembles a trumpet. He is overjoyed regardless.

The remaining two children simply request a sword and a poodle. Stereotypical, yet all the better for it. They’re basic models used for training. A child could learn to do it if they took the time to actually learn.

General entertainment takes up the most time. Telling jokes, moving in an exaggerated albeit pointlessly random fashion. It’s the padding to an otherwise lacklustre excuse for entertainment. But children adore it, so parents are forced to pay through the nose to keep those same children occupied. Stories of my time at the ‘carnival’ are especially useful in that regard. They can be as long as required.

“Boy, am I _hungry_.” But even that has to come to an end. Thankfully, it beckons the finale. “It’s a good thing I have a tasty pie being made just for me.”

Pinkamena runs off to the kitchen, as per the final prearrangement. A cake base with cream spread on top is a simple thing for anyone to make in the background and prepare for. Less so is it to keep the pie on your person.

“Oh, I sure am looking forward to my custard pie.” It contains zero traces of custard. “I do hope _Pinkie_ brings it out soon.”

Her nickname came in useful after all.

She wanders towards, as required. “Here’s your pie! I made it especially special just for you, Cinchy!”

No, you didn’t. It’s made from a plastic-packed sponge cake and whipped cream. Whipped cream from a cheap can. Whipped cream that Pinkamena has been especially liberal with. If she used the whole can, I wouldn’t be remotely surprised.

“Oh, lovely. I do like a nice custard pie.”

Also as required, she pretends to trip.

The act is rather simple. She pretends to trip, placing the pie into my hands as I ‘catch’ it before ‘dropping’ it into my face. It’s about as convincing a mistake as saying that your pet destroyed your homework, but young children are hardly the smartest creatures, nor the most perceptive.

“No, my pie!” I squeal.

I catch it, sigh in sheer defeat, and lean back as I slap it into my face. That should have been the end of it.

I’m ready to laugh it off, upset at the demise of my precious pie… before adding that I need to go home and wash up. The children will ‘aww’, I’ll hand out some miscellaneous party items form within my outfit and make my leave.

Pinkamena, I realise too late, has taken her act too far.

Her body falls too far forward too quickly for her to catch herself, her balance breaking and her act becoming all too real. The last thing I need is the girl getting injured on my shift.

Unfortunately, she realises that too. I assume she attempts to grab hold of my coat or find a hand I offer to her. My hands are far too occupied with the pie, my own motions already too far gone to stop.

She decides to grab onto the pants of my costume inside.

“No, stop–!”

The loose waist does not help matters, nor do the few props inside. The moment she grabs hold for leverage, both she and the bottom half of my costume slam down onto the ground. In an oh-so meagre attempt to move out of the way, or to save some semblance of respect, I shift quickly on my heels… only to fall onto my back in the process.

Just as I avoid my head making hard contact with the carpet, I realise my hands are empty. Where–?

The cream coated cake slaps straight onto my face. It is no less pleasant after having already purposefully shoved there already. As is the case when anything hits you in the face, no matter how slight, that moment of shock still remains.

The rainbow girl breaks out into a new uncontrolled laughter in an otherwise tense silence, followed closely by a dozen or so hyperactive children.

“I’m so sorry!”

Pinkamena sounds genuinely remorseful as she grips my upper arm. And so she should. But that isn’t good. It’s not a happy face. It’s not a pleased customer, even if it was entirely her own fault.

I hear heavy steps as other comes to my aide. I want to assume Cup Cake and her husband. I’d be liable to slap the rainbow girl if she gets remotely close.

The tangled of fabric around my ankles is emphasised all the more by the cool air hitting my bare skin. A displeased customer is one thing. The police being called to the address because you were in your underwear in front of children would be the end of this job entirely. In the current job market, I was lucky enough to get this role as quickly as I did.

“Are you okay Aba– Cinchy?” Cup Cake asks me, confirming my hopes. I feel her hands on one arms as Pinkie takes hold of the other.

I can’t lose this, not after all the humiliation I’ve put myself through to keep it.

Adapt.

_Adapt!_

Once they have helped me back on my feet, I hurriedly pull up the costume. The waist is as pointlessly loose as before but it relieves any tension built up over the situation. Any heat on my cheeks is well hidden by the makeup, and the permanent blush already painted against my skin.

“Pinkie, when I said give me the pie, I didn’t quite mean like that!”

I pull a finger through the cream on my face, bringing it to my mouth before removing the finger with an audible pop. “Yummy!”

There’s no panic, but my teeth are firm once more. My jaw may as well be locked into place, the forced smile lingering on my face begging to be relaxed. Mrs. Cake moves back, sighing pleasantries. And quite fortunately, the children only laugh louder.

Pinkamena’s friend does not, but she throws me a new look. One that very much implies ‘you deserve that’.

_Insolent little whelp._

But I can’t reply. I can only _smile, smile, smile!_ back at her. I can only grin a horridly tight grin and shrug.

I can only be the joke. Because of course I must.

That _is_ my life now, isn’t it? To be a walking joke?

Pinkamena isn’t so rude. But her apologetic look has turned from something thoughtful into a jubilant laughter, as achingly bright as that of the children.

She even whispers to me. “Great save. You’re totally the best clown-slash-former-evil-principal I have _ever_ seen in my life.”

I still haven’t found the urge to loosen my urge. “ _I try.”_

I most definitely try.

And until I find that opening, the single chance I have to climb my way back up. To get back at those rotten students…

I will keep trying.

Announcing the end of my set, as expected of young children brings about many pleas for the contrary. A few extra forced smiles and ‘high fives’ is enough to make my exit. I’ll have to leave through the back door, as is the standard. Children don’t pay enough attention to adults to notice one coming in, but leaving after spending so much time with a clown?

It has the very high potential to break the illusion. Breaking the illusion is strictly against contract guidelines and the best act in the world isn’t going to save you from an upset child in the aftermath. Rather pleasantly, Cup Cake and her husband seem most pleased as I make my way to the quiet of the staff door.

The moment the door to the staff hall closes behind me, my face drops. The wig is ripped from my head and through frustration alone, I force the knuckles in my hand to crack loudly against the muffled music from the room behind me. Pinkamena follows soon after, presumably to unlock the changing room for me.

Her grin is as jubilant as always. More so than even the children.

“That,” she squeals. “Was.” Her voice growing steadily higher with each proclamation. “Completely. _Awesome!_ ”

Misgivings aside, there is always the slightest pride in a job well done. Especially when it is a job that you detest with every fibre of your mortal being.

She unlocks the door. My hopes of peace are dashed when she briefly follows me inside to stand at the door. I pull some cleansing wipes from my case and begins to remove the sticky makeup regardless. The sooner I’m cleaned up, the sooner I can leave this rotten place.

“And you totally _owned_ me pulling down your pants. I would have been confused for at least another two or three seconds. Maybe three and a half if I was having a bad day.”

“If the act is ruined, I do not get paid,” I state tersely. “It’s a case of adapt or go hungry.”

“At least you had some tasty pie!”

Cake. Whipped cream.

_Not a pie_. Definitely not any justifiable replacement for even the unhealthiest meal.

“You were still totally awesome. And the kids loved you!” Sadly. “I’m definitely going to hire you again if I’m ever put in charge of another birthday party.”

If there is one shred of thread present in the fabric of the universe that is purely fair and just, please do not.

“And I’ll recommend you!” She says it with such pure naivety that it almost hurts. “I know a ton of parents that would love a decent clown for their kids. You have no idea how creepy a lot of them can be.”

Believe me, I do. I work with them.

Though, a boost in bookings would likely quicken the building of a reputation as a dependable actor. And these days an interesting resume is often more valued than one so cut and dry. A future career on top could be just on the horizon.

More ludicrous things have occurred. Magic notwithstanding.

Pinkamena isn’t completely devoid of tact, it seems; she leaves me to change. I assume she’s merely waiting outside once again. It would be unwise to allow me free reign of the building. Even she must surely have seen that.

Changed, cleaned and with equipment packed up neatly where it belongs, I am proven right when I meet her outside.

“Thanks again, Cinchy,” she says to me, guiding me the last few steps towards the back door. “You definitely made the twins’ day. I will definitely be leaving, like, a bajillion star review on Squeal. I’ll get the Cakes to make one too.”

“It is… appreciated.” Genuinely. Public perception is everything.

With that, I’m released from my torment. He backdoor is opened and closed in short succession. A swift wave from Pinkamena and I’m once again alone with only myself and my rational thoughts.

I take in a deep breath of the fresh afternoon air and make my way back to my car.

I’ll need all the rest in the world to recover for my shift tomorrow.


End file.
